Nelson DeMille: The book case

I stood near the door and looked into the street as a taxi pulled up and discharged a lady who, based on the photo I saw, looked like Mrs. Parker.

She glanced at the police car and strode quickly toward the door. The expression on her face showed some concern, but not exactly sick with worry over her husband’s accident. I mean, I’ve seen it all by now, and Mrs. Parker looked to me like someone who needed to get through some slightly unpleasant business.

She opened the door, glanced at me, then at Officer Rourke, and then spotted Jay Lawrence in the rear of the store as he spotted her. They hurried toward one another and met at the Bargain Book table.

It was an awkward moment as they vacillated between embracing, grasping each other’s hands, or high-fiving.

He took both her hands in his, and I heard him say, “Mia, I am so sorry…Otis is…”

Dead. Come on, Jay. I’ve got thirty minutes before I have to announce a suspected homicide.

She got the drift and they embraced. He looked over her shoulder at me and caught me looking at my watch while I took another bite of my sandwich. I really felt like a turd.

I mean, what if neither of them had anything to do with Otis Parker’s murder? I knew it had to be an inside job, but it could have been Scott or Otis’s ex-wife, or Jennifer the part-time clerk, or other persons not yet known who had off-hour access to the store and to Otis Parker. Right?

On the subject of motive, there are, generally speaking, six major motives for murder. Ready? They are profit, revenge, jealousy, concealment of a crime, avoidance of humiliation or disgrace, and homicidal mania. There are variations, of course, and combinations, but if you focus on those and try to match them to a suspect-even to an unlikely suspect-then you can conduct an intelligent investigation.

Sometimes, of course, you don’t need to go that route. Sometimes you have lots of forensic evidence-like someone’s fingerprints on the murder weapon. But that’s not my job. I’m a detective and I deal with the human condition first, then the clues I can see with my own eyes and the statements people make or don’t make. If I’m smart and lucky, I can wrap it up before the CSU people and the medical examiner are done.

While I was thinking about all this, I was observing Mr. Lawrence and Mrs. Parker. They were sitting side by side in the reading chairs now, he with his hand on her shoulder, she dabbing her eyes with his handkerchief.

For the record, she was easy to look at. A little younger than Scott thought-maybe late thirties, long raven-black hair, Morticia makeup, and I’m sure a good figure under her black lambskin coat, which was open now revealing a dark gray knit dress that looked expensive. She also wore long black boots, a cashmere scarf, and gloves, which she’d taken off. A well-dressed lady, complete with a gold watch, wedding band, and a nice rock.

I tried to picture her plodding away at her paperwork in her apartment in this outfit. Well, maybe she had an appointment later.

I had let a respectable amount of time elapse, so I ditched my sandwich on the counter, and then I walked over to the grieving widow and her friend. I introduced myself to her without pointing to my shield.

She looked up at me but did not respond.

I said, “I’m very sorry about your husband.”

She nodded.

I spoke to her, in a soft and gentle voice, “Sometimes the bereaved wants to see the body. Sometimes it helps bring closure. Sometimes it’s too painful.” And sometimes the bereaved totally loses it and confesses on the spot. I assured her, “It’s your choice.”

She didn’t think too long before replying, “I don’t want to…see him.”

“I understand.” I said to her. “I’d like you to stay here until the body is removed.” I explained, “You may have to sign paperwork.”

She replied in a weak voice, “I want to go home.”

“All right. I’ll call for a police car to take you home.” Later.

Jay Lawrence, without consulting the bereaved widow, said, “I will accompany her.”

I really wanted to question Mia Parker, but I couldn’t keep her here. I also wanted to question Jay Lawrence, but he was latched onto the grieving widow, and you want to question suspects separately so that you can pick up inconsistencies in their stories. Also, the courts have ruled that a cop is allowed to lie to a suspect in order to draw out some information. Like, “Okay, Mr. Lawrence, you say A, but Mrs. Parker and Scott told me B. Who’s lying, Mr. Lawrence?” Actually, it would be me who was lying. But you can’t play one against the other if both suspects are sitting together. I did, however, have some info from Scott, though not a lot.

Also, of course, this was not a homicide investigation, and therefore there were no suspects, and therefore I couldn’t pull these two off separately for questioning.

I mean, I knew beyond a doubt that Otis Parker had been murdered, and I was fairly sure there were two people involved, and it was an inside job, and it was premeditated. And the two people sitting in front of me filled the bill as potential suspects. But I had to tread lightly and treat them as a bereaved widow and a very upset friend who was also a crime writer with some savvy. Basically I was at a dead end at the Dead End Bookstore, and the clock was ticking.

So maybe I should just say it. “Sorry to inform you, but I believe Otis Parker was murdered, and I’d like you both to come to the precinct with me to see if you can help the police with this investigation.”

I was about to do that, but I had some time to kill before I had to call Ruiz, so I pulled up a chair, put on my sympathetic face, and asked Mrs. Parker, “Can I get you some water? Coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

I offered, “I can see if there’s something stronger in Mr. Parker’s office.”

She shook her head.

I said, conversationally, “I understand you decorated his office. It’s very nice.”

Our eyes met, and she hesitated, then said to me, “I told him…I told him to have it fastened to the wall…and he said he’d done that.”

“You mean the bookcase?”

She nodded.

“Well, unfortunately he didn’t.”

“Oh…” She sobbed, “Oh, if only he’d listened to me.”

Right. If men listened to their wives, they’d live longer and better lives. But married men, I think, have a death wish. That’s why they die before their wives. They want to. Okay, I’m getting off the subject.

I said to her, “Please don’t blame yourself.” Let me do that.

She put her hands over her face, sobbed again, and said, “I should have checked when I was in his office…but I always believed what Otis said to me.”

Making you the first wife in the history of the world to do that. Sorry, I digress again.

Actually, I could imagine that she did like her husband. Maybe he was a father figure. Despite her Morticia look, she seemed pleasant and she had a sweet voice. Maybe I was on the wrong track. But…my instincts said otherwise.

Under the category of asking questions that you already know the answer to, I asked her, “Do you and Mr. Lawrence know each other from LA?”

It was Mr. Lawrence who replied, “Yes, we do. But I don’t see what difference that makes.”

Of course you do, Jay. This is the stuff you write about. Anyway, I winged a response and said, “I need to say in my accident report what your relationship is to the widow.”

He didn’t say, “Bullshit!” but his face did. Good. Sweat, you pompous ass.

Mia Parker, who seemed clueless from Los Angeles, said to me, “Jay and I have been friends for years. We saw each other socially with our former spouses.”

I nodded, then said to her, “Scott tells me you were married last June.”